


Inferno

by pandasinthetardis



Category: SPN, Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 12:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandasinthetardis/pseuds/pandasinthetardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's time in Hell through the years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Epilogue

When Dean had been ripped to shreds his last thoughts were of Hell. He wishes his thoughts lingered on Sammy or his mom, but his brain is a weird place that doesn’t like to work the way it’s told. So, instead of thinking of Sammy’s laugh or his mom’s fresh baked pies he thought of the chaos that would be his new life. He imagines fire and brimstone and all the proper things people think Hell is like. He wonders if he’ll be burned alive for eternity or if the demons he had grown to know so well top side would be waiting for him with knifes and lemon juice. The pain begins to intensify as the hell hounds dig their claws into Dean’s ribs, cracking bones and tearing apart vital organs. Blood spews out, the hounds slurp it up, and Dean wonders if this is the kind of pain he’ll experience in his afterlife. With his luck it’ll be ten times worse.  
The claws and the fangs reach his heart. The world flickers into darkness. The pain subsides and for the first time in a long time Dean feels at peace.  
He wakes up to screams and pain. He feels a pain that is ten times worse than claws tearing open his stomach. He feels searing agony that is a hundred times worse than seeing disappointment in his father’s eyes. He feels misery and utter hopelessness that is a thousand times worse than holding Sammy as he died.  
“SAMMY!” he bellows as the pain wraps around his throat. “HELP!” The claws rip him apart second after second. He feels his father slap him across the face, causing him to bite his tong. He sees Sammy fall to the ground, a knife imbedded in his back. He feels the hundreds of monsters he’s battled gorge out his intestines. He sees his father sell his soul. He feels his mother’s tears on his forehead. It’s an endless loop that lasts an eternity.  
“So much pain, Dean Winchester,” a voice sinkers beside his ear. “Oh, but save your strength. There is so much more to come.” Dean nearly cries out, willing to do anything for this torture to end. “That is… Unless you take this knife and stab it into the soul next to you. Twist it a little. Shove it in deep.” The voice is moaning in Dean’s ear. “The pain could all be over.”  
If Dean could move, if hooks and chains didn’t snake their way in and out of his body, he would spit in the demons face. Instead he tries to speak. He rasps out something vulgar. The pain flares anew. The hooks dig into his shoulders, the claws tear out his lungs so he can no longer scream, and his brother dies over and over again in front of his eyes.


	2. Day 11

Time is immeasurable in Hell. There is no sun that goes round and round, no bird songs to welcome the day, no stars to shine at night. There is no sleeping- that would be too much like a gift. A moment to forget, a moment to dream, no, that would never happen in Hell. A soul must be fully aware of the agony that suffocates it but never kills it. Time in Hell is marked only by the different screams of the victims. Time is marked by the tools that are driven into Dean over and over again.   
He feels Alistair rip open his chest, pulling apart his skin and muscle and ribs to lick his intestines with his acidic tong.”You have a nice taste, Dean.” Alistair purrs into Dean’s kidney. Dean feels his liver give way as Alistair tugs. “Hm. This is a little to soaked in alcohol for my taste.” He throws the useless organ over his shoulder where Dean can hear growling and barking and a sickening munching sound. “They like it well enough.”  
Souls can’t sleep but they sure as hell can pass out for a few seconds.


	3. Day 65

Deans veins are wrapped around his head, choking him, blinding him. It shouldn’t feel as weird as it does. Dean’s used to his body parts shoved where they shouldn’t be, but this is a new one. They’re still bleeding. The blood still pumps through the veins even though there is no heart to actually pump the blood. Dean knows his heart isn’t there because he can see Alistair taking small bites out of it. Still his veins push blood into Dean’s eyes, ears, and mouth.  
Dean chokes on his own blood. It’s an odd sensation, but one he’s becoming familiar with. This is the twenty-sixth time he’s tasted his own blood. Last time was when Dean’s spleen was shoved down his throat by Alistair. It went down hard, even covered in body juices. It wasn’t the worst thing that Dean had ever eaten and that scared him shitless, literally. Alistair laughed for hours before he asked Dean the same question he asks every day or night or whatever the hell time it was.  
“Take the knife, Dean. The pain will end.” Alistair says, distracted by the blood seeping from Dean’s half eaten heart.  
Dean gurgles a no. Never.


	4. Year Two

Dean snaps out of unconsciousness to the sound of a new scream. He knows all the screams in this dark little corner of hell. There are forty different souls here, 36 of them are female. The older ones scream for their children or their partners, the younger ones for their mothers and fathers. Sometimes Dean joins them. Some days, most days, he’ll scream for Sammy. He’s learned that get’s Alistair harder faster so Dean tries to limit his cries for his brother. Other days, when there has been a particularly inventive torture method tried on Dean, he screams for his father. The days when he’s left with the Hell Hounds he cries for his mother.  
But today nothing is happening to Dean. All his organs are accounted for- he knows them all intimately by this point. He hears the new scream, a woman’s scream, and almost recognizes it.  
“Ah, yes. You would know this woman,” Alastair calls from far off. “Come here.”  
Dean can lift his legs. He can lift his arms. Shakily he pushes himself up and for the first time Dean can see something other than the blood red ceiling and Alastair’s cruel smile. He sees all the other souls strewn about on racks. They also see him. Some are sitting up, terror in their eyes, while others are stumbling towards Alastair. They all look sick, like the bodies Dean had been forced to look at while studying the Holocaust.  
Maybe Dean can make a run for it. It’s worth a shot. He slings his legs over the table and for the first time sees them. Pale, bloody, almost ghost like. He can make out the individual veins, the individual bones that jut out at odd angles. Side tracked, scared out his mind, he touches his face. He can feel his cheek bones. His eyes are sunken in and blood drips from his nose. He glances at his hands. Cut, bruised and boney. They don’t look like Dean’s hands, his hands were meant for killing, and these hands are meant for nothing. He takes a shaky breath and coughs. His lungs rattle and shake with emphysema. He spews out brownish yellow phlegm onto the blood drench floor. He wonders how much of that blood is his.  
The woman screams again in such horror and misery that Dean has no choice but to look up from the floor, from his starved body. “Dean, please come over here. The others have already gathered.” Dean is pulled from his perch and dragged by an invisible hand to the rack where the screams get louder.  
A brown haired girl so emaciated and pale, howls as her eye is plucked out by a spoon and mercury is poured in.  
“B-Bella?” Dean rasps. He pushes through the crowed to the only thing he has recognized in years. “Bella!” Dean coughs as he reaches the table. The once snarky young woman that stole Dean’s car lays stepped to a iron pentagram looking like a shell of her former self. Her lips are bleeding, her cheeks, much like Dean’s, are sunken in, blood spills from the hole in her head, and Dean can’t bear to look over her naked body. Her eyes have black lines snaking through them. She’s turning into a demon.  
“Yes, Dean. Bela. I’m surprised you recognized her,” Alastair sings, tossing Bela’s half black eye to the waiting hounds.  
“D-De…” Bela tries to talk but Alastair cuts her throat with a rusty blade. Blood sprays Dean in the face. Some scream and look away, not used to seeing what they normally feel while others look on, fascinated. Dean gets a chill. Fifteen people are smiling at the bloodshed.  
The wound heals up fast enough but Bela doesn’t try to talk again. Instead she looks at Dean with her one good eye. There are flints of recognition but mostly there is only sorrow and suffering.  
“I’ve gathered you all here to take a test,” Alastair murmurs, stroking a young woman’s haggard cheek, drawing blood with the faintest touch. “This woman, like all of you, made a deal with a demon. She, like most of you, has been tortured for awhile. I’m giving you all a chance to stop the torture.”There is a small glint of hope in Bela’s eye. She, along with Dean, holds her breath. “No, no. Not for our dear Bela here, but for yourselves.” The hope in Bela’s eye disappears and blankness replaces it. “Anyone of you can pick up a knife, use it on this silly young woman, and never feel the sting of a blade again.” Alastair moves to reveal a small assortment of knifes, tongs, scissors and a litany of things can’t name but knows how they feel.  
For a second there is complete silence. Nobody moves, nobody breaths. Bela blinks, tears forming at the corner of her eye. She turns her head away from Dean, waiting.  
Fifteen eager souls lunge for the torture devices that had been used on them and turn on Bela. Screams fill the air. At first they are Bela’s sobs and cries. Soon they die out and are replaced by laughter.  
Dean turns away, along with the few souls that can’t bare to watch, and stumbles back to his rack. Before he reaches is home, however, a small sobbing sound stops him. He looks to his right and sees a small girl, just as sickly as everybody else. She has light blond hair that is slimy with blood and bright brown eyes. He’s heard her scream before but never thought she would be this young. Dean hobbles over to her and, not knowing what else to do, picks her up and holds her tight. To Dean’s surprise she nuzzles her face in the crook of his neck and hugs back.  
For the first time in his life, Dean prays. He’s never bereaved in a God but it couldn’t hurt. He asks for this little girl to be taken away. Whatever she did killed herself or made a deal with a demon, she didn’t deserve this. She didn’t deserve to be taken to the depths of Hell and have her organs shoved down her throat and fed to animals. She didn’t deserve to watch people turn into demons.  
“What’s your name?” Dean whispers, trying not to alert Alastair to this small act of humanity.  
The little girl blinks up at him. “Samantha. My friends call me Sammy.” The name hits him hard. The fact that she’s missing her two front teeth and talks with a childish lisp hits him even harder.  
“I have a brother I call Sammy,” Dean tries to smile. His lips crack under the odd movement. The little girl, ignoring the blood, smiles. She knows, she’s heard him scream Sammy over and over. Sometimes it makes her feel a little better, makes her feel like she’s not completely alone.  
“Now now, we can’t have that,” Alastair hisses into Dean’s ear.  
“No!” Dean hollers. The little girl is wrenched from his grasp. She lets out a panicked shriek as she’s transported to a small rack. “Leave her alone!” Dean struggles to Sammy. He can’t reach her; something’s pulling him back to his table.  
Knifes fly up and pierce the little girl three, four… six times before Dean throws up.


End file.
